raise your glass
by Sane-in-Insanity
Summary: Dean/Castiel — "You know, if my girlfriend was here, she'd probably claw your eyes out like those chicks in America's Next Top Model."


_Note: AU fic, and prequel to free country, found in my profile._

* * *

**raise your glass**

"_You know, if my girlfriend was here, she'd probably claw your eyes out like those chicks in America's Next Top Model."_

* * *

It is a quiet night at The Roadhouse.

Castiel is wiping a wine glass behind the counter when he notices a man in his mid-twenties walk in. He is slightly taller than Castiel, wearing a faded, dingy leather jacket and torn pale jeans. Castiel glances away when the man approaches.

"A dry martini," the man orders with a deep, somewhat gruff voice as he occupies a stool across from Castiel.

"Coming," Castiel mutters hastily when he realises he is the only one there to take the order. The man doesn't seem to pay him any attention, so Castiel keeps his eyes on the man, fascinated, as he makes the beverage. "Your drink."

The man takes a long sip, and then gulps down the whole glass. Castiel watches the movement of the man's throat as he drinks, intrigued by the bob of his Adam's apple. The curve of his throat is smooth and tanned and Castiel's fingers twitch, yearning to touch—

—He blinks a few times, trying to snap out of the trance and gets back to wiping the row of wine glass, his cheeks flushing red hot.

Things go like this for the next half hour or so: the man orders another drink when he finishes one, Castiel makes the drink and goes back to working, and the cycle repeats.

Castiel is cleaning the counter top when the man says, "You know, if my girlfriend was here, she'd probably claw your eyes out like those chicks in America's Next Top Model."

Castiel sputters and looks at the man, cheeks growing hot once again, "What?" He scowls, suddenly in a bad mood for some reason. Somehow, Castiel suspects it might be the mentioning of the man's girlfriend. It's strange.

The man's eyes are glazed from the effects of alcohol. A sneer breaks across his face as he says, "You were ogling me all night long, Cas."

Castiel almost does a double-take at the mention of his name and then he remembers the name tag pinned on his uniform. He looks at the man, frowning and trying to think of a reasonable explanation. He sees no point in denying it. "I find you quite fascinating."

"And I find _you _creepier than Norman Bates."

Castiel stares at the man, more confused than ever. "Who is Norman Bates?"

The man raises an eyebrow, an incredulous look in his green eyes like not knowing Norman Bates is somehow very unacceptable. "Dude, you serious? Crazy cross-dressing dude who gets his freak on by killin' people? No?"

Castiel doesn't recall anyone like that. He would remember if he did; this Norman Bates person sounds rather dangerous. "Sorry, I don't think I've met him. If I do, I'll make sure to call the police."

The man laughs, short and loud, and rolls his eyes. He leans forward slightly, a lopsided leer hanging off his lips, "You're friggin' weird, y'know that?"

"I've been told," Castiel mumbles.

They lapse into silence once again, with Castiel mixing drinks and the man watching his every move. Castiel swallows, feeling very self-conscious. He tries not to fidget with his tie.

Suddenly, the man asks, "Cas, what are you doing in a place like this?"

Castiel pauses his stirring and meets the man's gaze, "It's strange that you know my name and I don't know yours. It makes the conversation feel unnatural and uncomfortable."

The man grins from ear to ear, "You're a funny guy. Name's Dean."

For some reason, Castiel feels obliged to say, "Hi, Dean."

"So, you gonna satisfy my raging curiosity?" Dean says, voice slurring a little, "A classy-looking kinda guy like you sticks out like a sore thumb 'round here."

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, tilting his head with a minor frown, deciding. Why does it matter what he tells Dean? He is just a one-time customer and Castiel only works a few shifts per week at The Roadhouse. Chances are they won't see each other again. Castiel clears his throat, "I was twenty when my family disowned me," he says, careful to keep his voice level, "I couldn't afford Princeton by myself, so I dropped out and now I mix alcoholic beverages for a living."

Dean raises his eyebrows, a startled look in his eyes, "Wow, world-class douchebaggery right there. I'm sorry, man."

"They had their reasons," Castiel replies evenly. He doesn't even know why he is defending the very people that denied his existence, "They were…rigid in their beliefs and I was—am not what society would call _standard_."

Dean chuckles, sardonic and bitter, "Takes one to know one," Dean laughs louder, causing a few heads to turn, "We both have some seriously fucked-up baggage, man. I can already sense all the chicks within a ten-mile radius scurrying away in fear."

"Your girlfriend would be pleased to know that, I think," Castiel mutters.

"Oh, she would be, but she's dead," Dean says so casually that Castiel stares at him, mouth falling slack for a moment. "I go off to Iraq, kill some poor sons of bitches, come back and all I see is her fucking grave. And you know what they do, Cas? They stick me in some shrink ward and tell me that everything's going to be fine. Damn right they are."

Castiel has his gaze fixated on Dean, wanting to look away, but unable to tear away from the raw pain and guilt in those green, green eyes. Castiel doesn't know what to say.

Dean doesn't seem to be expecting an answer, though, because he raises his glass and smirks at Castiel, slow and cynical, "To happily never after."

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_It wasn't going to end up so angsty, I swear. I was planning to have a pre-smut ending like my usual fics, but this came vomitting out of me instead. Oh well, I hope you liked it. Please don't fav without leaving a review~ And don't forget there's a sequel called free country!_


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